I’m sure it started in a warehouse
but eventually you’d wear it down
to be little more than threadbare
red hair
still stuck to its seams.
You left it in your dresser
for far too long
it used to lie
in a heap of haste
on the carpet by the bed
the lazy blue hues reminded you
too much of old
summer day dreams
caught up in a haze of
cotton sheets and cotton
t’s cast
off.
It’s so much more than
the American Apparel
tag or iconic
unisex complexity
jammed in between
jeans and sweaters
or separating bodies
pressed together
plant based fibres
woven tight to fight
the quickened breath
of chest on chest and
air breathed between
four lungs
your breath
her sweat
knit tight
between the dishonest thread count
a businessman came up with
in his pyjamas
working from his mother’s old laptop
while he lounged on the futon.
Screen printed somewhere in the basement
of a low budget
geek chic enterprise
when you ordered it online
the colours looked brighter
but pictures and computer screens
and smiles and affectionate pleas—
they can be deceiving.
who owns it
while it is crumpled
on the carpet by your bed
you let her wear it
when it’s dark outside;
on her way to the bathroom—
the hem barely covering
the top of her thighs
she hasn’t worn it
in a long time
her red hair
is still stuck in the seams
and you haven’t worn it since